life

My Poem “More than we might know”

Mark Hastings Poetry , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Christmas Day is but once a year,
however the way that some people
make us feel every day
is enough to make us what to cry
tears of love and joy
because we know how lucky we are to
have them close and near.

Christmas time is when people tend
to think about others more than usual,
and Christmas time is also
when people often also
tend to reflect back upon
everything that life has tested them with,
especially as we all grow older
and we remember things in the past
that we may have accidentally taken for granted.

Everybody is this life needs somebody
to hear them, to think about them,
to give them the gift of their time –
even is it is only in the form of
a greetings card that tells someone
that you were thinking about them,
because no one who has done so much
good for other people ever deserves
to be forgotten or left behind.

Time is precious…
people are vulnerable…
there are people in this world
who have lost everything
because of a natural disaster,
because of homelessness,
because life has not been kind to them –
and this time of the year is when
a large population of the world
considers what means the most to them,
and the greatest gift
that we can all give one another –
as members of the collective
human family of this planet –
is respect, peace, and an opportunity
for everybody to find happiness
while doing something
that gives their life meaning.

We can all be better people sometimes…
we can all be better at communicating
our feelings – however, there are times
when talking is the hardest thing to do,
especially when you feel like nobody
could ever understand
what you are going through…
we can all be better listeners –
however, the ability to fully listen
and to hear what someone is trying
to tell you is harder than you think.

We can all be there for somebody
in particular when they need
the gift of someone to be there for them,
to make time for them,
to embody the spirit of the season,
and to get them through the sometimes
harsh Winter of the Northern Hemisphere
and the sometimes uncomfortable Summer
of the Southern Hemisphere –
because no one is immune to life,
because everybody is human,
and it is important that we all
remember, as often as possible,
who we are, what we are,
how short our time to shine is,
and that it takes almost no effort at all
to be present in the life
of somebody who may needs us
more than we might know.

My Poem “Beacons of the Season”

Mark Hastings Poetry , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

The season of Christmas
doesn’t truly begin for me
until I am decorating
and turning on the lights
of our family Christmas tree…
it has been a tradition
for as long as I can remember
for me to be the one
who retrieves the Christmas tree
from the attic and hangs
all the tinsel and the baubles
in an always unique and random fashion,
and I enjoy every moment
because I love the thought
of creating a brand new piece
of festive art that makes people smile
and draws the attention of everybody
and fills them with a sense of awe.

My family has had a couple
of Christmas trees throughout my life;
however, we never had a real pine tree –
so I have never had the experience
of having to periodically clean up
fallen pine needles from the floor,
but I have been fortunate
on many occasions
to have taken a walk through
a forest of still growing pine trees
so I am fully aware of the intoxicating
and calming fragrance of their aroma –
and every time I get to inhale
that distinctive smell of pine
I find that it always
opens a door within my mind
to tastes, to sounds, to feelings,
and to experiences that to me define
what is so special about
Christmas time.

I believe that there is nothing else
that symbolizes the hope
that everybody wishes to find
at this time of the year
than the multicolored lights
of a Christmas tree
shining in the darkness of twilight
and reminding everyone
who gaze upon them
that all is never lost –
because I believe that every source of light
is a beacon of optimism
that anyone can use
to find their way back to a place
that can call home at any hour
of the day or the night.

My Poem “Close to the Land”

Mark Hastings Poetry , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

So many people
feel this incredible draw
to nature, to the wilderness,
to the back to basics lifestyle
of living out the dream
of having a cabin in the woods
to call home, in the middle of nowhere,
and a backyard surrounded
by of acres of trees, plants,
and wildlife all living in
a state of balance with one another –
even from a young age,
so many people have this automatic,
undeniable, unflinching feeling
deep within them that
the place that they want to spend
most of their time is the same place
from which all of our ancestors
sprung from and had to endure,
traverse, and adapt to for centuries –
the forests, the jungles,
the snow-covered peaks of mountains,
the dry and arid deserts,
the extreme heat, the harsh cold;
and everywhere on Earth has its own
conditions that daily test a person’s
strength of will and their reason
for being where they are,
and why they choose to do what they do –
and for some people life comes down to
and revolves around that universal
drive to be free, to feel alive,
to look around, to understand life,
to connect with our origins
in ways that transcend
the mirage of the material world
of modern society so that
they can feel fulfilled
by the spirit of being awestruck,
and feel compelled to know more
about the environment
and the natural ecosystem of our planet,
and sometimes the only way to do so
is to venture into the wild
and live as close to the land
as anyone possibly can.

My Poem “The Question that drives us”

Mark Hastings Poetry , , , , , , , , , , ,

Everybody has a question
that drives them which influences
every choice that they make
and every action that they take…
everybody has a question
that they need answered
in order to give their life meaning…
everybody has a question
that reflects what they hope
will be their ultimate fate…
everybody has a question
that is answered multiple times
throughout their life
which, for so many reasons,
some people sometimes find it hard
to accept and to believe
because they often find it hard
to imagine what they cannot see.

Answers are not always what people
find at the end of a journey…
possibilities are what most people
dwell upon when they reach
the end of a particular story…
most things in life that we commit
ourselves to are a matter of trust…
revelations are always powerful –
but almost always, in reflection,
no matter what we are doing
and where we are going,
it is the questions that we have,
the questions that we ponder upon,
and the questions that we are
consistently awoken by
over and over again
which are the source within our life
of what truly drives us.

My Poem “The Hero’s Journey”

Mark Hastings Poetry , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

It occurs to me that since I
first began writing poetry
that I have been on my own version
of “The Hero’s Journey”…
perhaps I have been on
my “Hero’s Journey” since I was a child –
or, more likely, like most people
who find themselves called
to seek out adventure,
my childhood was just the preparation
that I needed to learn and to grow
before I knew what I had to do,
why I had to do it,
and where I needed to go.

My call to adventure was one of love –
and when I discovered the book
that I would come to consider
as the poetic version of a “holy text”
that was when I felt like I crossed
a threshold into a new world
where I could see patterns
and poetry all around me
and I felt truly transformed
and able to walk through doors
that I was unable to do so before.

When I first started upon
the path of the poet,
and wearing the guise
of the Poet of the Sphere,
along the way I found myself
drawn to people and inspired
by mentors and muses
who opened my eyes to things
that challenged the way
that I perceived the world around me
and I was tempted down dead ends
that would ultimately lead me to a downfall.

After my fall I found myself
within a dark and deep abyss
of my own making –
however, eventually, I was able
to pick myself up off the ground
and like the embodiment of
a mythological phoenix
rising from a fire
I felt as if I had been reborn,
and yet again I found myself
walking down a path of transformation
in order to find myself,
which was followed by
moments of revelation
that lead me to atone
for the actions that I had taken
that had lead me to emotional ruin.

Over time I was given the gift
of love from a goddess
and I was forgiven, and then I returned
from the underworld of the unknown
to the land of light where I would
rekindle the love that gives
meaning to everything that I do –
and so the cycle began again,
and again – however each time always
distinctly different in some way –
and after every new revolution
was completed I always found myself
sitting down, alone, writing,
contemplating and attempting
to interpret in verse the revelations
and the phases that combine
to make the tapestry of
my own version of
“The Hero’s Journey”.

My Poem “Giving Thanks”

Mark Hastings Poetry , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Life is sometimes testing…
Life is sometimes depressing…
Life is sometimes a hard pill to swallow…
Life is precious, as is time –
and that is why we all need
to embrace every moment
with everybody we love,
because unfortunately
Life is not filled with
an ending number of tomorrows.

Life is never perfect –
no one ever always gets what they want…
Life is not meant to be anyone’s
personal version of perfection,
because if that were not the case
then we would be able to stop
people from leaving us
and we would always be able
to find what we have lost.

Life is a chain of changes…
Life is a series of streams…
Life is a wave of emotions
that rise high one day
and then crash down around you
when you least expect them.

Life is what it is…
Life is what it is designed to be…
Life is what it needs to be –
but that doesn’t mean that we
always have to like it;
however, sometimes it is the things
in this Life that we have absolutely
no control over –
which is most things, most of the time –
that are what make us who we are,
what we are, and why we are
the way that we are,
and it is the people who have seen us
at our worst but nevertheless still love us –
our loved ones who we share memories with –
who we should daily look at
and give thanks for
for simply being there when
we needed them the most
and sometimes people who we
only get to reconnect with
around Christmas time
or within the season of Thanksgiving.

My Poem “The Rings of Saturn”

Mark Hastings Poetry , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

While growing up,
when asked by someone:
what my favourite planet
of the solar system was?
I would always immediately respond
by saying the name
of the most renowned
and the most instantly identifiable
and recognisable ring-encircled
“Gas Giant” that almost everybody
on Earth is familiar with,
and that Giant of the night sky
is the one and only planet Saturn.

Why has Saturn been my favourite
planet since I was a child,
and not Mars? Jupiter?
Neptune? Or Mercury?
Well, I am not entirely sure;
however, for whatever reason,
there has literally always been
a gravity that has been
drawing my attention
to Saturn in particular –
perhaps it is because
every time that I have seen images
of its vast, iconic, beautiful,
and incredible ring system
that surrounds it,
that is all made up of tiny pieces
of rock and ice that all seem
to fit together perfectly
and combine harmoniously to create
an example of natural astrological art,
there always seems to be a synergy
that to me is symbolic
of some many fundamental things
that I believe life it’s true meaning.

To me, the rings of Saturn
symbolize how life and the universe
is in a constant state of revolution
and almost clock-work like precision,
and depending upon which
vantage point certain things
are being observed from
that can have a fundamental effect
on how they are perceived;
for example, when seen along their
peripheral edge the rings of Saturn
are almost imperceptible,
but when seen from above
or from below the majestic magnificence
of Saturn’s rings show just how
spectacular they are to behold.

From a singular human
perspective and interpretation,
the rings of Saturn resemble
a vinyl-record ingrained with
the music of an artist –
and, just like a record spinning
on a turntable, people here on Earth
have been able to find a way to listen,
to interpret, to record, and to share
the music being generated
by this impressive world,
that just like every spinning
sphere of the cosmos –
be it a star, a moon , or a planet –
is constantly resonating a signal,
a voice, a music, a song
that can only be heard by those
with the right ears to hear it.

The universe, the galaxy,
the solar system of planets
that Earth is a part of
has always been a source
of exploration and discovery,
of intrigue and inspiration,
and thanks to the inventions
of some of our most inspired
and innovative creators and inventors
we have all been able to have
the privilege to see, to hear,
and to feel the pull of
some of the cosmos’ most
awe-inspiring and incredible phenomena;
however, to me, no matter what else
is discovered and uncovered
behind the dark veil of space,
I will always look to and consider
the impressive ringed world
of Saturn to be among the most exceptional
and evocative wonders of the universe.

My Poem “Working Day”

Mark Hastings Poetry , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Ice scraping… wheels spinning…
wind blowing… people shivering…
the air of the morning is freezing…
the winter weather of
this new morning is unforgiving.

Turn the heat up to the max…
watch your footing upon those slippery paths…
keep those windows closed
or you will feel the snap
of that deadly draft.

Blue sky… birds chirping as they fly…
Looks like the traffic is light?
But now red lights? Why?
I think some people need
to relearn how to drive?

Busy bees of the city –
people with somewhere to be…
On the radio I hear
that some trains have been cancelled,
that some cars have
broken down on some highways –
and I bet that there more than
a few people asking themselves right now
the question: why me?

Bikers weaving lane to lane –
those riders have got to be on their game…
A near-miss? Wow! That was close!
If that rider had been any slower then
right now they’d be toast.

Get to work with time to spare –
not the best feeling to be there…
hot coffee, calls to make,
not long until the next break…
hopefully the time today flies by –
hopefully 9 will soon turn into 5.

Driving home…
my bed is calling…
my phone is dying…
my stomach is rumbling…
might need to get
some take-out on my way –
because if I don’t
it’ll soon be too late.

Home safe… legs ache…
take-out meal still warm? Great!
Time to watch some TV? Ok!
Eyelids soon get heavy…
Hard to concentrate…
Need to sleep…
These days it is not as easy
as it used to be to stay up late.

Seems like the instant
that my head hits the pillow
my alarm clock is already waking me up –
and whether it want to or not
now I need to roll out of bed
and get up.

Another day, another dollar…
once again I am getting dressed,
and flattening down my collar –
and soon enough I am heading
out of the house
to restart the cycle,
and as always I hope and I pray
that I can once again make it through
the “rat race” of all that
life throws at the average person
on a typical, busy, often exhausting,
modern day, wild west of a working day.

My Poem “Personal Collective”

Mark Hastings Poetry , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

There is nothing like
being around like-minded
people who all share
the same appreciation
and the same optimistic
outlook about something,
about someone, about life,
about the future,
about the importance of humanity
working together and respecting
one another for a common purpose
to maintain the ever growing,
changing, and evolving experiment
that is the human race
that will only truly begin to
show its potential when
the collective members
of our species ventures away
from Earth, seeks out,
and sees with their own eyes
all the wonders of
the rest of the universe.

It is so great being around people
who feel free and able to express
themselves in any and every way
that they can imagine…
it is so great to be around people
who do not require any kind of
explanation as to who you are,
what you are, and why you choose
to look then way that you do,
because you are instantly
and automatically accepted
as being a member of their collective.

When you are around people
who immediately understand you –
a fellow convention attendee,
a fellow concert-goer,
a fellow fan and enthusiast
of the same TV show, film, music,
group, artist, author –
then there is always a silent connection,
a mutual wave of empathy, an excitement,
and when the shared feeling
of a group of people culminates
into a rush of adrenaline
when they get to live out
a dream and meet a star
who symbolizes and embodies
that which they have invested
countless hours and energy into –
like meeting an actor who you admire,
or a rock star whose music always
makes your heart beat fast,
or an author whose words
have touched your heart –
then follows a perhaps
once in a life-time moment
that becomes a seed of joy
that grows, blooms,
and flourishes within you
so much so that it seeps out
and spreads to other people,
and sometimes to people
who you may slowly but surely
convert and assimilate
into your very own
personal collective.

My Poem “Verbatim”

Mark Hastings Poetry , , , , , , , , , , , ,

There is a story behind everything…
there is a reason for everything…
there is a story to be told about everybody…
there is truth to be found
about the human condition
by listening to everybody.

Everybody is capable of being
a storyteller with a varied
and a different perspective
on everything, because
everybody experiences the world uniquely –
which is why no voice
should be ever silenced or muted
because their opinions
do not run in parallel
with that of the status quo…
everybody is capable
of expressing themselves somehow –
even if it is with the power of a stare
or a passive but noticeable gesture
that is a part of the universal
art of getting your point across
and making your intentions known.

Stories are wonderful things –
however, stories have a way
of taking on a life of their own…
some stories can start out
being about something
small and insignificant –
however, when stories are internalized
and personalized then can be reshaped
and retold in many different ways…
stories can be given names –
especially those that were inspired
by real life events and circumstances…
stories always have characters in them –
and on occasion storytellers
often exaggerate the qualities
and the attributes of a particular
character in order to make the story
that they are telling more dramatic…
some stories are referred to as
“Chinese whispers”, because they grow,
because they change, because depending
on how many times they have been told,
heard, retold, and shared –
though the seed at the centre
of the same story remains the same –
little by little, with every passing
iteration and narration,
a story can lose some of it’s most
fundamental facts,
and the devil that is in the details
of a story can become a shadow
of what was initially intended
to be a story told word for word.